


DEICIDE.

by paopuleaf



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Gen, Mild Gore, Possession, affectionately nicknamed "tillman henderson commits deicide", carcinization, kind of ., tillman henderson (has a not great time)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:33:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27340522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paopuleaf/pseuds/paopuleaf
Summary: YOU ARE NO BETTER THAN ME.YOU ARE NO BETTER THAN ME.(or; the line between god and godkiller becomes even more blurry.)
Relationships: Tillman Henderson & The Olde One
Comments: 6
Kudos: 31





	DEICIDE.

**Author's Note:**

> looped the first track of DEICIDE for two hours and then wrote this in a haze

there are so many eyes/eyes/eyes

You feel them being lifted out of Your grasp

the power You once held is no longer at Your disposal

unfortunate

three remain

they are cut off from You

the jurisdiction of another

She does not like You

You will not be getting them back soon

bitter

for a moment You were almost attached

she would've been perfect

one option

unprotected

the birds do not mind sharing

he has fulfilled his purpose

useless now to them

the Monitor does not want him

an empty shell left alone on the field

(ha)

the perfect vessel for You

You know what must be done

he will know too

soon

soon/soon/ _now_

the tether is tied

he will know You 

he will know You as himself

He will know You as Himself

and He will not falter.

-

wings grow and tear from flesh and unfurl. bones break and regrow and become hollow. it's painful, and kind of bloody, but the process happened in the hall and the hall is a blur and tillman's long since repressed most of dying, anyway.

he's reminded, though, of faint sensations and lightning-bolt pain as something _snaps_ to him.

there is always a tug to baltimore.

there will always be a tug to baltimore.

tillman didn't live there for all of his life, play there for most of his career, to be able to leave it behind so easy. the tug isn't always insistent, just - there. something to live with. a bug bite he doesn't itch.

but _god,_ does it itch now, like a million ants crawling over his skin, beckoning, pulling the air out of his lungs and throwing him into the ocean to drown. a headfirst slide into hell.

he goes to sleep.

(it is not restful. he dreams of the bay and of a voice calling to him that brock told him was long dead.)

he wakes up.

there is carapace, chitin growing from ear to mouth along his jaw, jutting up like a small underbite, and there is shell and plates like armor from elbow to fingers, and -

he does not falter.

he goes to sleep.

(he dreams of birds and the feeling of someone's flesh shredding between his claws.)

he wakes up.

there are things growing out of his back. promises of arms and claws, later, like forrest has; his wings furl inward, like a shield, as if that'll _stop_ it. something is different under his skin and it feels _wrong._ holes where water and air mix. antennae poke up from beneath his hair. his flesh feels less like a body and more like a suit.

he does not falter.

he does not - 

okay, fuck that, he's faltering. he's faltering a _lot._ the weirdass subliminal messaging in the back of his head is starting to _get_ to him. tillman saw what happened to loser, to forrest, to everyone. carcinization was an _honor_ that he didn't deserve. 

and now's he's - second best. the olde one's _last option._ only option. she can fuck off and die for all he cares (and even now something is aching in his chest now that he's thought that, separate from himself but _him_ -)

there is a tug calling him to baltimore, and for the first time all off-season, he listens.

he's not… recognizable. he is but he's _not_ , because nobody expects tillman henderson to be stumbling down the street in the vague direction of the airport with wings and claws and like _seven_ crab legs sticking out of his back and too-long limbs and - 

yeah. 

there's no feeling behind it, though. feels like when he used to have those deadlines in high school he couldn't give a shit about because his brain just didn't work. feels like the moments when he made the deal with the birds, feels like consequence blindness in every form but _more._ tillman henderson is twenty-five percent tillman in flesh and ninety percent tillman in mind and those numbers are ticking down.

he doesn't care. he can't care. there's the vague alarm of "i should really be caring about this," but all he can feel is that tug/tug/tug.

go to baltimore.

go to baltimore.

he will not falter.

He will not falter.

-

don't go in the water, they always said. it's full of toxins, they always said. they're probably right. a moment of hesitation, and then He jumps in. there is Someone waiting for him at the bottom. 

the carcass of chitin is ever standing. it tears apart easily in His claws. there is something wrong. He steps in. there is nothing inside but emptiness and blood dripping blue/blue/blue. what He is seeking is here. further in. there is something wrong. the path is clear.

_YOU HAVE ARRIVED, MY SON_.

there is something wrong. "I'm here," His voice says. "what do You need me to do?" 

_FIND ME._

"well that's fuckin' simple. can do."

nothing under His feet is solid, permanent. none of it feels real. there is no one outside of this corpse, no one but water and the shell of a stadium once used. there is something wrong. He ventures deeper in.

a pulsating heart is in front of Him.

a tug. it hurts.

something is wrong.

_ARE YOU READY?_

pause. long. nothing but the beat/beat/beat.

"absolutely not." tillman flips off the heart and watches as eyes/eyes/eyes open up and stare. there is anger in them. he is, somehow, not afraid. the heavy fog of apathy is gone. he is not afraid. "what, you think i'm that stupid? laaaaame. not gonna get taken over by some weird crab god who didn't give a shit about me before now."

Her heart pulses in his chest. 

_WHAT ARE YOU DOING?_

tillman laughs - She sounds like socks when you don't feed them in time, he thinks, the yowling indignation and everything. "fuck off."

the heart beats fast/fast/faster. blood up to his ankles, now. _YOU ARE NO BETTER THAN ME_ , the old heart calls. tillman scoffs. grins.

"yeah," and he shambles forward, baring teeth like another set of claws, "you got one thing right."

flesh under his fingers/claws/legs. it gives in easily. she is nothing under his hands. she is nothing. 

_YOU ARE NO BETTER THAN ME._

she is falling apart. the corpse breathes rapid breaths with her. blood up to his knees. 

_YOU ARE NO BETTER THAN ME._

tillman gets to the center. he is covered in viscera. later, he'll shed it like a molt. for now it stays.

_YOU ARE NO BETTER THAN ME._

he grabs the small crab in the center, looking up at him with so, so much anger. small. this is what she is? this? 

_YOU ARE NO BETTER THAN ME._

"shitty last words," tillman informs her.

she is crushed. easy as anything.

blood up above his head. (he breathes it in and does not drown.) the tug is gone.

"that _sucked_."

his heart beats/beats/beats. her carcass/shell/life folds inwards, and no one is the wiser. tillman comes out of the bay looking every bit the corpse he was before he was resurrected.

the flight to chicago is quiet. he really needs a shower.

**Author's Note:**

> wow that's kind of fucked up huh  
> you can find me on tumblr @ catboydeicide or on twitter @ paopuleaves or in the crabitat still on my tillmikelan bullshit


End file.
